


Mycroft's Boggart

by Teej



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:59:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6326320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teej/pseuds/Teej
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would scare Mycroft?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mycroft's Boggart

**Author's Note:**

> Response to a challenge incorporating a Harry Potter-style boggart in a totally different fandom. I chose Sherlock, especially from a remark by Mycroft in "The Empty Hearse" where he compares his intellect against ordinary people....

“Your hand,” Watson stated firmly. 

Mycroft refused to move. 

John's eyebrow rose in a mocking salute, as he eyed the prostrate man. “C'mon Mycroft, you know the drill,” John said crisply. “Hold out your hand.”

“And if I were to refuse?” Mycroft said with disdain, looking at John as if he were a lower form of molecular invertebrate.

John's mouth curled downwards and he shrugged. “No skin off my nose. You're the one who has to explain to the members of your club why you suddenly screamed like a girl and fainted dead away in the reading room. How many rules did that break?”

“Not to mention how many fines you just incurred for breaking said rules and calling out the Met for this, shall we say, minor incident?” Sherlock's mocking voice floated into the conversation from where he sat in a lounge chair on the other side of the room.

“It wasn't a minor incident at the time!” Mycroft sniped uncharacteristically.

“Yeah, well it will become a major one if you don't allow Watson to check you over!” Lestrade added, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Why the hell you put the three of us on an emergency contact list is utterly inconceivable...” He folded his arms, shaking his head in disbelief at it all.

“Obviously because the club declared this to be an emergency.” John said, sighing in disgust as Mycroft struggled to sit up.

Never in their wildest imaginations would they have seen Mycroft in his current condition. His impeccable suit was jarred by the loosened tie and unbuttoned collar, his hair askew, he already was naturally pale but now his complexion looked decidedly grey. Once sat up, he swayed, closing his eyes, and struggled not to fall back over. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

“So let's avoid further embarrassment, shall we?” John said. “Hold out your hand.”

Mycroft looked at John with a dose of contempt and lifted his hand, palm up. It trembled, badly. With a mocking smile in response, John noted the shaking, then he shook his watch free of his shirt sleeve, gripped Mycroft's wrist and began taking the man's pulse. 

“Tell us again what happened?” John asked.

“You've been around Sherlock long enough, you tell me.” Mycroft replied sourly.

With his chin resting in his hand, Sherlock thoughtfully stroked his lip as he watched the drama unfolding, then he smirked and said nary a word.

“What I can tell you is that your pulse is racing three times faster than it should. If you were to get up right now, you'd pass out again. By right's I should be checking your blood pressure, it's probably well above what it should be, not to mention your heart rate.”

“And what does that tell you?” Mycroft asked as if addressing a five year old.

“Something scared the crap out of you.” Lestrade supplied. “So bad you fainted. You had to be carried by the cooking staff and the manservant up here.”

“Which they should never have done.” John added. 

A tinge of mauve appeared on Mycroft's grey face. “Of course they should have. The reading room is not to be disturbed by anything.”

“And you created quite the kerfluffle by fainting in it.” Sherlock said with a straight face. “So you have mortifying embarrassment on top of something scaring you so bad you drop like a little girl seeing a spider.”

“Indignity on top of indignity on top of...” John started

“Yes, yes, yes!” Mycroft groused, jerking his hand from John's grip and interrupting him. He reached up to pinch the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed shut as he attempted to keep his world from spinning madly around. “It's all a pretty, vicious, little circle for your amusement.”

“Passing out from fright isn't amusing. Especially if your head hit something on the way down.” John reprimanded. “As it is you're lucky your head hit the cushion of the chair you were sitting in. You knocked it over.”

“So screaming in fright, fainting and knocking the furniture over. I'm surprised we're not seeing the other club members for apoplexy.” Sherlock smiled. “What exactly happened?”

“Well, according to the manservant...” Lestrade said. “He allowed a gentleman, a stranger to the club, into the building, who made his way in to the reading room. You...” Lestrade looked pointedly at Mycroft “...had risen from your chair and were adjusting your suit jacket in the mirror when the man approached you from behind. The manservant then states that you turned around, looked at the man in horror and screamed before passing out.” 

He paused a moment. “Then the narrative gets decidedly weird.”

“Weird?” John asked as if the present situation wasn't strange enough.

“The man in question, the stranger, presented proper credentials as a member of the Diogenes Club, which is why the manservant let him in. However,” Lestrade looked at Mycroft accusingly. “The manservant and four of the eight club members in the room gave me completely different descriptions of him. The other four couldn't be bothered to notice a stranger in their midst. Then to make matters worse...”

Mycroft barely stifled a groan.

Lestrade smiled at him. “The stranger mysteriously vanished. Better still, the manservant swears he literally disappeared from sight the minute you looked at him and screamed.”

“Are you quite enjoying rubbing salt into the wounds, Detective Inspector?” Mycroft asked.

“Oh I've only just warmed up.” And he ploughed on. “With the five different descriptions I've been given, we checked the clubs record and all five men don't even exist. So we have a non-descript individual entering this exclusive club, scaring the founding member so bad he faints, knocking things all around, then vanishing from the face of the earth like a ghost. The eight members who were in the room with you at the time have already filed complaints to the manservant about the amount of noise you created and about the serving staff having to come in there and cart you out like a sack of potatoes.”

“You've said quite enough...” Mycroft started flicking his hair back into place. 

Sherlock interrupted him, his voice tinged with glee. “Oh no, no. Please keep going!”

Lestrade looked from one brother to the other in disgust. “Then there is the matter of calling out of a Met squad to a scene not requiring their presence. I can just imagine the bill you are going to get for that alone.”

“Enough to make you scream and faint?” John asked, looking oh so innocent.

“So it now all comes down to you...” Lestrade said. “Who was that man and what did he look like?”

“You have five descriptions, none of which match. Take your pick.” Mycroft responded dryly. “I see no point in adding a sixth to your impeccable list.” He flashed a phony, polite, smile at the Detective Inspector and began adjust his collar and tie.

“And what did you see to make you so frightened you'd faint?” Lestrade added.

Mycroft sniffed, adjusting his tie and refused to speak further. He cast a pointed glance at Sherlock.

Sherlock got up from the chair. “Suffice is to say, this conversation has just been ended.”

“But...” Lestrade started. 

John heaved a sigh, just shaking head. “No sense in arguing, Greg, we've just been dismissed.” He looked at Mycroft. “Shall I waste my breath telling you to go see your doctor?”

Mycroft just smiled sweetly at him with all the sincerity of a brick.

“But...” Lestrade said again as both John and Sherlock herded him out the door. He looked from one to the other, quickly realizing that neither was going to say a thing until they walked out of the doors of the strangest club in England.

“Do you mind?” He asked sourly as they descended the steps out onto the pavement.

“Don't know what to tell you.” John said. “All I know is something scared him so bad he fainted.”

“What could have scared that man so badly he'd pass out from fright?” Lestrade demanded looking at Sherlock. 

Sherlock was adjusting his coat collar, up. He glanced sidelong at Lestrade, that maddeningly smug smirk on his face. He knew exactly what his older brother had seen.

“You've known all along, haven't you?” John said sourly.

“Give!” Lestrade growled at him his eyes intent, boring holes into Sherlock's.

“You won't believe me if I tell you,” Sherlock responded.

“What the hell could scare that man so bad he'd pass out?” Lestrade demanded. 

“Try us,” John snapped.

Sherlock just smiled. “Even if I did tell you, you still won't believe me. Only one thing could possibly affect Mycroft so blatantly,” he replied. “He saw himself.”

“Himself?” John burst out.

“Exactly, he saw himself.” Sherlock said as the other two fell in besides him as he walked off down the street. 

“Himself as?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock just smiled smugly, tucking his chin into his collar, amusement writ all over his features.

“He saw himself... as a goldfish.”


End file.
